


As Great As the Galaxies, As Bright As the Stars

by chetta



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: M/M, Missing Scenes, all I'm gonna say, discovery could be improved if there was more culmets, will be updated frequently
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-02-23 03:58:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13181895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chetta/pseuds/chetta
Summary: Missing scenes from the first season of Star Trek Discovery, all centering on our favourite doctor and astromycologist.Chapter 5: Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum





	1. Context Is for Kings

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Stormkpr for the beta :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul is assigned to the recovery team for the USS Glenn. Hugh isn't going to let his partner go without talking some things over first.

Stamets checks over his tactical suit, cataloguing the veritable arsenal Starfleet sends along with its officers on away missions. He’d be lying if said that he knows what all of it is meant for. 

Paul’s been on the science track since his first year in Starfleet; aside from some cursory protocol training, he knows nothing about the proper way to lead a regulation landing party.

Lorca can tell them that they’re warriors now as many times as he likes, but it won’t change the fact that the Discovery is a ship full of wide-eyed explorers and green scientists. They were never meant to see battle; all of these yeomen and ensigns thought they would be tucked away in a science vessel for the duration of the fighting--half of their crew is the academy’s most recent graduating class. 

“Lieutenant Stamets.” Landry falls into step next to him, already decked out in her tac suit. If he didn’t want her to lose all respect for him he would ask her how she managed to get ready so quickly. “Our shuttle is waiting for you in the hangar. The Captain wants us in the air and on the Glenn as quickly as possible.” 

“Tell him we’ll leave when we’re ready and not a second before. I’m not risking the lives of this team just to satiate his lack of patience,” he says, voice tight. 

Landry’s firm grip on his arm halts him before he can walk away. Her expression is like ice. “You may be heading this mission, Lieutenant, but don’t make the mistake of forgetting who’s in charge here.”

“Like you people could ever let me forget.” He wrenches his arm out of her grip. 

“Careful, Lieutenant Stamets,” she calls to his retreating back. 

The hangar is bustling with activity when he arrives, the rest of the away team already assembled in front of their shuttle. Emergency medkits are being loaded by two harried-looking nurses. One of them nods to him as he takes his place with the rest of the party. 

Paul attempts another perfunctory check of his tac suit, his hands fumbling across the armoured plating and weapons holsters. 

He watches the mutineer do a check of her own, securing her phaser, testing her respirator, double-checking her comms unit. Burnham does all of this without fanfare, her movements almost mechanic in nature. 

Her eyes meet his for a fraction of a second. Stamets could almost believe that she didn’t notice him watching her, if not for the fact that she slows down almost imperceptibly. 

“Stupid non-Vulcan,” he mutters to himself, turning away from her pointed demonstration. Stamets may not know much about Starfleet regulation, but he’s a good scientist, dammit. He should be able to figure out pre-mission checks without being silently condescended to by his inferiors. 

And the mutineer no less. Paul doesn’t need her fucking up this away mission, with Lorca on the warpath there’s too much at stake. 

Taking a breath, Paul starts his check again. There’s this nagging feeling in the back of his mind that has him convinced that he’s forgetting something. He can’t put his finger on what it is until-

“Paul!”

Ah. Right. “It's Lieutenant Stamets when we’re on duty, Lieutenant-Commander. Why are you here, anyway?” 

Hugh isn’t fazed by his apparent antipathy. He holds up a medkit. “Delivering supplies.”

Paul inclines an eyebrow, locking his hands behind his back. “Well, you were misinformed. We already have the necessary medical supplies for the mission.” 

Hugh fixes him with an unimpressed look and hands the medkit off to one of the nurses. “I’m well aware. I just needed an excuse so I come and in on check on you before the mission.”

“Your concern is unnecessary, Hugh.”

A light pressure on his back leads him away from the rest of the group. “You can stop with the posturing. I heard about Straal.” Hugh’s voice goes soft. “I’m sorry; I know how close you two were.”

Paul shakes his head, brushing off Hugh’s hand. “We were research partners, nothing-”

“Don’t--just, don’t.” Hugh’s hand finds Paul’s, coaxing apart the stiff digits. “I can respect when you distance yourself from your colleagues--if that’s what you want to do then that’s your prerogative--but the one thing I can’t understand is why you’re starting with _me_ now.”

“Hugh, I’m not…” He trails off as the doctor lays a warm hand on his cheek. Paul presses his face into the contact without really thinking about it. 

“No one will begrudge you for acting a little human once and a while. Least of all me.” 

“I--I apologize,” he says after a moment.

Hugh's mouth turns up into a dim smile. “See, how difficult was that?”

“Shut up for once, will you?” Paul grumbles, but there’s no heat to his voice. 

Hugh pulls him in, into an embrace Paul is more familiar with than the back of his own hand. He feels the tension drain out of his body, bit by bit, inch by inch. 

Nothing seems real yet. Straal’s death, the loss of the Glenn, the Klingon war, none of it. Paul is struck by the sheer unfairness of it all. 

He winds his arms around Hugh’s broad shoulders and clings to the one thing that seems to make sense in this whole mess. “This mission could be dangerous,” he says into his partner’s neck. “A whole crew dead and no obvious explanation. Things have gone worse in better circumstances.”

“Well, hopefully it won’t come to that.” His voice rumbles through Paul’s chest. “Be careful. I don’t want to see you until I get off shift tonight, you hear me? So no trips to medbay.” 

Paul carefully pulls away. “You have my word, dear doctor.” 

Hugh’s eyes are shining with emotion. “I’ll see you at home.”

“Yes.” Paul can’t help the smile that blooms across his face. Home. Before he can come to his senses, Paul leans in to press a chaste kiss to his partner’s cheek. 

Hugh blinks, eyes wide. 

Paul can feel heat rush into his face. He barely resists the urge to turn and make sure that no one is watching them. 

“I need to go now,” he mutters, almost unwilling to leave now that he’s had a chance to see Hugh.

“Wait.” Hugh reaches out and for a moment Paul is afraid that he’s about to pull him back in. Instead, his hand goes to Paul’s waist.

There’s a mechanic click and something whirs to life on his belt. 

Hugh’s got a sly grin on his face. “You didn’t activate your phaser. You see, this is why I worry.” 

“I might not be a stickler for regulation like you are, but contrary to popular belief, I am not actually an idiot.” The words sound false even to his ears.

“Be safe,” Hugh says one more time, his mirth fading. He takes a step back. “Lieutenant.”

He nods. “Lieutenant-Commander.”

“Stamets! Are we ready to leave now or what?” Lorca’s voice rings through Paul’s commlink. “The sooner we get those components aboard the Discovery the sooner your team can begin work on it.”

“Yes, Captain. Landing party boarding now.”

Paul catches Hugh’s eyes one more time before takeoff, his hand raised in farewell.

He turns towards his team and the faint shape of the Glenn visible ahead. They have a mission to complete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright! I hope you liked the fic, hopefully it'll be the first in a long line of episode fills. I'll try to have the next one written and posted in the next couple of days--I'm aiming for before the start of the new year. Feel free to drop me any comments on things that I've gotten wrong, I tried to stick as true to canon as possible but memory alpha doesn't tell me specifics. 
> 
> Kudos and comments are what make my day!!
> 
> [Come visit me on Tumblr!](http://memesichetta.tumblr.com/)


	2. The Butcher's Knife Cares Not for the Lamb's Cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hugh and Paul deal with the fallout from their interaction in sickbay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Stormkpr, my favourite fan and beta.

As soon as Stamets sits down for dinner in the mess, he knows he’s landed himself in hot water. 

For one thing, Hugh doesn’t immediately greet him with a flurry of personal queries or begin regaling him with a hyperbolized story about his day in sickbay. In fact, he doesn’t even look up from his padd--just continues tapping away at the screen and picking at his replicated salad. 

Paul sets down his tray on the opposite side of the table. “Really, Hugh?” He inclines his head. “Can I expect your acknowledgement at any time soon, or should I just get used to talking to myself?”

“You know, typically in a relationship, when one person is subjected to the silent treatment by the other, it signals that there is some sort of intrapersonal conflict that needs to be remedied,” Hugh says, his tone clipped and clinical. He sounds like he could be reading off of a patient’s medical chart. 

“So what, you want me to apologize? Because I am completely able to do that. Here watch--Hugh, _I’m sorry.”_

The apology at least makes Hugh look up from his datapadd, though his expression remains as cold as his voice had been. “You honestly have no idea what you’re apologizing for, do you?”

Paul can fake his way through a lot of things--he’s done it for many a diplomatic dinner and away mission--but if there’s one thing he’s learned, it’s that there is no way to lie to Hugh. “Not really.” 

Hugh shakes his head. If this is a test, Paul has obviously failed. “I don’t know why I expected anything less,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Just go back to your lab, Paul. Back to your experiments and your spore drive and leave me with all these _unnecessary_ emotions.” 

The words are like a slap on the face; Paul reels back as if they were one. “So that’s what this is about? My comments in sickbay?” 

Hugh’s mouth is a hard line. “Yes and no.”

His partner's reluctance to actually verbalize their problem is beginning to grate on Paul’s nerves. “Would you like to give me a straight answer at least once today? You know I’m not a fan of riddles and this whole conversation is really starting to feel like one.” 

“Would it kill you to at least pretend to care about why I’m upset?” Hugh snaps, slamming his padd down on the table. The noise startles several of the nearby crew, attracting some stares from the surrounding tables.

Paul shakes his head, eyes narrowed in confusion. “What gave you the impression that I don’t care?”

Hugh gapes at him. “You show utter disdain for any emotionality whatsoever. I’ve met _Vulcans_ with larger emotional ranges than yours.” 

“Just because I don’t show my feelings in the same way doesn’t--”

“You told me that feeling things was overrated. Who in the galaxy says that to their partner?” Hugh’s face is flushed with anger. He sighs. “What does that say about us?”

“You know I--” his voice drops, low enough so that only Hugh can hear it. “--care about you.”

Hugh scoffs, shoulders slumping. “That’s all you can say. After all these years, that’s all you can say.” He makes a move to stand.

Paul halts him with a firm grip on his hand. “Hugh. I don’t know what you want me to say.” 

“I have the late shift tonight, don’t wait up,” he says coldly and then shakes off Paul’s hand.

000

Paul doesn’t sleep well that night. Despite the success of the spore drive and their victory on Corvan II, he just can’t seem to quiet his racing thoughts.

His and Hugh’s argument keeps replaying whenever he closes his eyes, keeping him wide awake even in the room’s darkness.

A hard ball of guilt roils in his gut. Paul hates this, the feeling of being mid-fight with the man he loves--because he does love Hugh, even though he may struggle to verbalize it most of the time. 

Paul sighs. There’s no way he’ll be able to sleep tonight without going to see Hugh first. “Computer, lights to 50%.”

He squints as his eyes adjust to the brightness, stumbling towards their shared closet. After wrestling on a sweater and a pair of shoes, Paul’s feet steer him in the direction of sickbay. 

The ship is mostly deserted at this time of night--typically only junior officers are assigned to the night shift due to the fact that no one else wants to work it. Hugh, however, always volunteers for the night shift out of some sadistic sense of duty. 

He can almost hear Hugh’s voice now. “If you woke up having a heart attack in the middle of the night, who would you want treating you--a decorated medical professional or someone who’s just graduated from the Academy?” 

There’s no way to argue with that reasoning, so Paul doesn’t really have the necessary ground to stand on in order to complain about having to sleep alone. 

When Paul gets to sickbay, it’s strangely deserted. Ensign Charles is the room’s sole patient, sprawled on a bed with his arm clutched to his chest; one of the nurses is looking at x-rays on the opposite side of the room. 

“Have either of you seen Dr. Culber?”

The nurse turns around. “Something the matter, Lieutenant?” 

Paul shakes his head, twining his hands behind his back. “Nothing of a medical nature--I would like to speak with him if he isn’t otherwise occupied.”

“I’m afraid he’s in the middle of surgery right now,” he says, eyebrows puzzling at Paul’s lack of uniform. While the ship doesn’t mandate that off-duty officers wear uniforms, Lieutenant Stamets has been known to wear his even when not on shift. “Helmsman Lucio came in for an emergency appendectomy.”

“Any idea when he’ll be finished?” Paul asks.

The nurse shrugs. “No idea. You’re free to wait here, if you want.”

He shakes his head. Paul isn’t a fan of sickbay, a feeling that is only exacerbated when Hugh isn’t there. “That won’t be necessary, but thank you.” 

Paul doesn’t have a specific goal or direction in mind after leaving sickbay, just allows his feet to tread the familiar path towards the labs. 

The automatic lights flicker on when he walks into the room. Paul heaves himself into the chair in front of his console, powering on the systems he’d been busy with earlier that day. There are a few data-readings from their Corvan II jumps that he’d like to look over and draft reports on before Lorca orders them on their next mission. God knows he’ll be insufferable about everything now that his pressure on the science department has finally yielded some results. 

Paul tries to ignore any residual feelings of guilt and sets to work highlighting output ratios.

000

“Paul?”

The Lieutenant is jolted awake by a hand on his shoulder. He’s slumped at his console, his head pillowed on his arms.

Hugh stands just behind him, still uniformed in his starch medical whites. There are dark circles under his eyes--it’s clear that surgery had been long and gruelling. 

Paul opens his mouth, ready to apologize and explain and beg forgiveness. “What time is it?” he asks instead. 

“Past 0300 hours. I just got off shift.” 

“Then what are you doing here? You should be sleeping.”

The corner of Hugh’s mouth turns up. He brings a hand up to lightly touch Paul’s face. “Nurse Valca told me that you’d come looking for me in the middle of the night. You weren’t in our room and this was my best guess.” 

Paul leans into the contact. “I couldn’t sleep knowing you were mad at me.” 

“I’m not mad,” he says, pulling up a chair next to Paul’s.

“Could have fooled me.” Paul seeks out Hugh’s hand, threading their fingers together. “Earlier, that conversation just--”

“Wasn’t conducive for either of us, yes I’m aware. I was pissed off and you were unreceptive. We’re both very different people--unfortunately, that means we sometimes rub each other the wrong way.” 

Paul looks up at Hugh from under his lashes. “You were right, though. About me and being unfeeling.”

Hugh’s smiling slightly when he says, “I know.”

“I just--I don’t mean to be so blase about everything, about _us._ I’m not the best at thinking before I speak.”

“I could have told you that within thirty seconds of meeting you, but go on.”

Paul sighs, his thumb running across the ridge of Hugh’s knuckles. “Hugh, I love you. I may not always be the greatest at saying it, but it's not something I’m ashamed of.” He tugs on Hugh’s hand for emphasis, forcing the doctor to look up at him. “I am going to make so many mistakes over the course of our lives, Hugh. I’m going to yell at you, and show endless amounts of disdain for things you like, but I am never going to stop loving you.” 

Hugh pulls him in for a kiss then, bridging the space between them with a familiar ease. “It wasn’t quite an apology, but I’ll take it.”

“Oh.” Paul schools his features, infusing as much seriousness and gravity into them as possible. “Hugh, I’m sorry.”

“Oh, shut up--I get it,” he says, dragging him in again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! I wanted to get everything written and posted before Sunday, but like everything in my life, it did not go according to plan. So this will become an ongoing series, being updated when I finish the first half of the series and then go on to write scenes for the newest episodes coming out. I'm excited! Anyways, I'll hopefully be back with another chapter before Sunday--who else is super excited for hiatus to be over?
> 
> Comments and kudos literally fuel me forwards :)
> 
>  
> 
> [Come visit me on Tumblr!](http://memesichetta.tumblr.com/)


	3. Choose Your Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he told Paul to find an alternative, this isn't what he had in mind.

Hugh relieves himself of duty immediately after the doors of the turbolift close behind them. 

“I’m not going back down there,” he decides, staring straight ahead. “Not if it’ll just be to watch you subject that poor creature to another round of torture. You’re going to kill it, Paul, and I can’t abide by that.” 

He feels rather than sees Paul turn towards him. “Hugh. The captain--” 

“The captain is doing what’s best for the mission, I know. But that doesn’t negate the fact that the entire reason we’re stuck in Klingon territory in the first place is because he put his need to find Lorca before the safety of the people on this ship. The tardigrade shouldn’t have to pay for his mistakes.”

Paul sighs. Hugh feels him step closer. A careful hand lays itself on his arm, tentative in its movements. “It isn’t as simple anymore. There are people counting on this spore drive--real _living_ people who won’t be alive for much longer if we can’t do something to save them.” 

Hugh’s voice is like steel. “And what about the tardigrade? Its life doesn’t matter, then?”

“The needs of the many outweigh the needs--”

“I don’t give a _damn_ about that stupid Vulcan proverb.” Hugh rounds on him, anger overflowing. The injustice of the situation has his jaw and fists both clenched with fury. 

Paul falls back a step, the hand outstretched in comfort turning now to an action of supplication. “Hugh-”

“No, Paul. That’s not a moral justification--it’s an excuse for subjugation and suffering that the Vulcanians engineered to keep themselves free from guilt.”

There’s silence in the lift for a moment, the fruits of Hugh’s anger and frustration still ringing through the air. 

He doesn’t like getting angry at Paul; that fact alone is usually what keeps disagreements from turning into arguments. But he can’t let this one slide. Not when the war starts moulding Paul into someone that Hugh doesn’t recognize.

“This isn’t you,” he pleads. 

Paul won’t look at him; Hugh’s expression hardens. 

“If there were any other way…” Paul quiets, reaching again for his partner. But his fingers close on empty air as Hugh draws back. 

He pretends not to see the way something dark and sad passes over Paul’s pale face.

“There is another way--there has to be,” Hugh says as the turbolift doors open behind him. “You need to find it, Paul.” His tone brokers no room for argument. 

He stalks out of the lift before Paul has a chance to formulate another defense. 

“Hugh, please.”

Something in the cadence of his voice draws Hugh up short. He’s used to Paul being obstinate, biting, even rude; what he doesn’t know how to handle is this level of earnestness--one only ever displayed in the most heart-wrenching circumstances.

Hugh turns, just long enough to see the lost expression on Paul’s face. There’s so much he wants to ask--why Paul is willing to compromise his morals for a captain he’s never particularly liked, how he can stand to see an innocent creature suffer, why he’s refusing to see the harm his invention is causing.

Instead, he asks something else. “You’re really going to go through with this, aren’t you? No matter what I say?”

Paul doesn’t deny it. 

Hugh shakes his head. He’s well aware that Paul can be thoughtless sometimes, especially when it comes to empathizing with others, but in all the years that they’ve known each other, he’s never known the scientist to be so deliberately cruel. 

“I can’t believe you would do something like this--I didn’t think you were capable.” He sighs, a heavy weight pressing in on his chest. “But I suppose that I have been wrong before.”

He starts down the corridor to their quarters. Paul knows better than to follow.

000

The first time his datapad chimes, several hours later, Hugh ignores it. Probably Saru ordering him down to the engineering lab to deal with what’s left of the tardigrade.

He heard the order come through for a black alert, saw the stars around them shift in the blink of an eye--the tardigrade is likely dead at this point. Hugh rolls over and forces his eyes shut. 

His padd chimes again, somehow managing to seem more insistent this time. Hugh reaches over to switch it off without looking at any of the notifications. 

It’s silent for only a moment. _Urgent communication from sickbay for Doctor Culber._

Rolling over, he fumbles for his padd. “For the love of--fine. Computer, patch me through to sickbay.” 

The first thing Hugh hears upon establishing the connection is mass panic. He picks out the harried voices of several medical personnel, as well as the piercing wail of a heart-rate monitor. 

“Doctor, you’re needed in sickbay immediately!” He vaguely recognizes the voice as belonging to one of the Cadets that Paul manages, the chatty one with the curly hair that Hugh can never remember the name of--albeit sounding much more frantic than he’s ever heard her. 

Hugh sighs. “I already told the Captain--”

“Apologies, Doctor. But--” The cadet’s voice breaks off before returning with alarming intensity. “It concerns Lieutenant Stamets.” 

There’s a distant cry of pain and Hugh starts. He’s thrown back to a time last year, long before the Discovery, when Hugh had to pop Paul’s shoulder back into alignment after a fall down a flight of stairs. The scream is one that is familiar enough for him to pin down.

“Oh my God, “ he says, his mind caught up in thoughts of broken clavicles and deep lacerations--tardigrade defense mechanisms that managed to leave an entire crew dead on the Glenn. “I’m on my way.”

There’s another far-off cry. “Please hurry.”

Hugh’s hands are shaking when they reach for his uniform. The sounds of panicked nurses and familiar whines of pain permeate the air until he can feel them deep in his chest. “Computer, end transmission,” he bites out, voice wavering. The sound cuts off abruptly, halfway through another aborted scream.

The trip to sickbay passes in a blur; Hugh’s pushing through the door to the main medical center within minutes of the panicked call. He freezes on the threshold, not quite sure what he’s seeing. 

Paul’s lying on one of the bio-beds, tensed like a bow-string and fighting against the few nurses attempting to keep him in place. It’s a far cry from the bloody pulp the doctor had been expecting, but no less terrifying. 

No sooner is he through the door than Paul’s cadet appears at his side in a flurry of red curls and flustered apologies. “Dr. Culber, I’m so sorry, I--I had no idea that he was going to--”

“Cadet.” He places a hand on her shoulder, hoping that she won’t be able to feel its tremor. “You did the right thing by calling me here. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a patient to see.”

She nods, curls bouncing with her vigor. “I am really sorry, though,” she says on an afterthought. 

Hugh waves her off. “We can’t help him by worrying.”

Her mouth opens and closes a few times as if trying to say more. She must see the desperation in his eyes because she merely closes her mouth and steps to the side. 

“Dr. Pollard,” he calls to the figure bent over Paul’s prone form, heart pounding a staccato rhythm against his ribs. “Status report.”

If there’s one thing that Hugh can count on, it’s Pollard’s professional composure; the towel she’s holding to Paul’s side is stained with blood, Hugh notices with distant alarm, but the doctor regards the entire scene with a calm, determined air. “From Cadet Tilly’s account, we are able to determine that the Lieutenant injected himself with a compound meant to give him access to the ship’s spore drive.” 

A gasp splutters its way out of Hugh’s chest. A sickening sense of dread is beginning to rise in his gut. He turns back towards his partner, still writhing on the bio-bed in apparent pain. “He did this to himself?”

“As far as we can tell, yes. Commander Saru found him in engineering after the jump--it looks like he piloted it himself in order to spare the tardigrade. He managed to operate it successfully, but we’re not sure of the residual effects of a combination of that nature interacting with his genetic makeup.”

Hugh wants to kick something, or maybe beg forgiveness. When he told Paul to find an alternative, _this isn’t what he meant_. 

He takes a deep, stuttering breath. There will be time later for assigning blame--for now, Paul’s well-being has to be his top priority. He snags a datapad from a passing nurse. “His chart is showing increased neurological activity,” he shouts over the blare of the heart rate monitor.

Pollard gestures towards the overhead display, now showing a scan of Paul’s brain lit up like an old Terran Christmas tree. “His brain is operating outside of the scope of anything I’ve ever seen in a humanoid species.” Her composure cracks, just for a moment. “Whatever Stamets has done to himself, I have no idea how to treat it.”

“Have you tried sedation? At least to calm him down?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know exactly what he injected himself with--as far as we know, anything else we put into him could do more harm than help.”

Hugh moves closer to the bio-bed, inspecting the red patches bleeding through Paul’s uniform. “He’s been pierced in the sides by something--any sign of respiratory or cardiac trauma?”

Upon hearing his voice, Paul stills for a moment. “Hugh?” A hand latches onto his arm. “Hugh?”

“Paul, can you hear me?” Hugh bends down next to the bed, sending each of the nurses a significant look and hoping that they understand it to mean ‘get lost’. 

There are thin slits of blue peeking out at him from between Paul’s eyelids. “Hugh?”

He tries again. “Can you hear me, Lieutenant?”

Paul’s face contorts as a spasm wracks his body. The hand on Hugh’s arm tightens to an almost painful extent. Another high whine cuts through the cacophony of the room. 

“His heart rate is approaching 200 BPM,” Hugh hears from somewhere over his shoulder. 

Paul gasps for breath below him. It takes Hugh a moment to realize that the high keening noise filling the air had been coming from his partner. 

“Pollard, I need sedation!” He turns to shout over his shoulder, keeping one hand planted on Paul’s chest to force him down. He can feel Paul’s heart racing underneath his palm--almost dangerously high for someone of Paul’s age. 

“We can’t risk it, Culber!”

Hugh’s hands are shaking. “If we can’t get his heart rate down, he’ll die!” 

“Hugh, Hugh,“ Paul gasps, quiet amid the mess of shouts and mechanic wails. “I can’t--it’s too much.”

“Too much of what? Paul, what…” He trails off, eyes wide. 

“Hold him down,” Pollard instructs as she rounds the other side of biobed, hypospray readied in her hands. 

Hugh throws out his other hand. “Wait.”

She freezes. “Culber what--”

“Dr. Pollard, when did Stamets begin showing symptoms?”

“About ten minutes--”

“Before or after he arrived in sickbay?”

Pollard blinks, searching her memories. “It was after.”

Hugh looks down at Paul; his eyes are scrunched tight, the hand not still gripping Hugh’s is pawing at his ear. 

Something clicks into place, gears begin turning behind Hugh’s eyes; the noise, the physical sensation, the light, the spore drive--it’s _too much._

“Get out.” Hugh breathes, tries again. “Everyone needs to get out of here!”

Pollard looks at him as if he’s just started speaking Klingon. “Doctor Culber--”

“The Lieutenant will be fine as long as everyone does as I say and leaves--right now!”

A couple of the nurses make an aborted move towards the door, halted by the firm voice of Dr. Pollard. “Don’t make me pull rank on this; you shouldn’t even be down here while we’re treating your partner.”

Hugh watches as Paul continues to writhe on the bed between them. “Look, we don’t have time for this. I need everyone out of sickbay.”

Pollard shakes her head and advances on Paul with the hypospray. 

“There’s no time to explain. Please, Pollard,” he begs, desperation causing his voice to waver. “I know how to save him--let me save him.” 

There’s a moment of tense inaction. 

After what feels to Hugh like a millennium, Pollard heaves a sigh. “You heard the Doctor--everyone out!”

A breath bubbles out of Hugh’s chest, a sob no one hears over the drone of the machinery.

Hugh doesn’t wait for the medical staff to file out before he starts shutting down everything within reach. As the room quiets, so does Paul--his hitching gasps gradually turning deeper and surer. 

In the silence of the room, Hugh’s breaths sound almost deafening. “Computer.” His voice cracks on the word. “Lights to twenty percent.” 

Paul has gone boneless on the biobed. Blood still trickles sluggishly from the wounds on his chest; Hugh brings out the dermal regenerator and sets to work. 

Pollard comes in a short while later. If she’s alarmed by the silence or dim of the room, she doesn’t show it. “The patient?” she asks, circling to the other side of the bed. 

“His heart rate is back to normal and his neurological activity is declining exponentially. My theory is that piloting the spore drive heightened his brain activity, and therefore his senses. The stimulus caused by the sickbay triggered a response from his sympathetic nervous system that his body would have been unable to sustain.” Hugh doesn’t look up from where he’s set the regenerator. While the wounds don’t appear to be life-threatening, he doesn’t want to take any chances. 

“Something akin to sensory overload?”

Hugh smooths his hand over the new skin covering Paul’s side. “I suppose, in a way.”

She takes a look at Paul’s chart, squinting to read the lowered brightness of the screen. “But he’s expected to make a full recovery?”

“When he wakes up, I’ll take him back to our quarters,” he says, nodding. 

The corner of Pollard’s mouth turns up in a smile. “He’ll be in good hands, then. Am I allowed to start sending my staff back in now?”

“Just a few more minutes.” Hugh starts on the last of the puncture wounds, carefully wiping away the dried blood. “I’ll start increasing brightness and noise levels soon--I want to ease him into it just in case it sets him off again.” 

“Alright.” She squeezes his shoulder and turns to leave. 

Before she reaches the door, he turns around. “Thank you for trusting me. I know it couldn’t have been easy--you’re the senior medical officer on duty so if anything had gone wrong it would have been on your head.”

“Hugh, anyone who’s seen you in action knows that you’re a capable doctor. And anyone who’s seen you with Paul knows that you would do anything to protect him. Having born witness to both of these things, it wasn’t exactly a leap of faith for me to believe that you’d take all necessary precautions to save his life.” 

It’s not quite a compliment, but Hugh still feels a smile creep over his face. “With how often Paul gets into trouble, it’s damn lucky I’m such a fine doctor.”

Pollard laughs and takes her leave. 

“Hey there.” 

Paul’s eyes are just open, his voice barely a murmur. 

“You’re an idiot,” Hugh says without any fanfare. 

“So you’ve said many times before.” Paul laughs and then winces when the movement pulls at his injuries. “I have to say, I have never been as much in agreement with you as I am now, though.” 

Finished with the regenerator, Hugh begins packing up his medkit. “Computer, lights to forty percent. How are you feeling?”

Paul seems to consider the question for a moment. “Fine. Like I could use a very long nap, but ultimately--fine.” 

Hugh drops back into the chair from which he had been treating Paul. Now that the adrenaline has left his system, the day’s events are beginning to catch up with him--the anger, the frustration, and the almost paralysing fear he’d experienced when he saw his partner on that biobed. He leans his head on the edge of the bed and closes his eyes. 

After a moment, he feels a hesitant hand smooth over his head. “I saved the tardigrade,” Paul says. “But I’m sure you’ve figured that out by now.”

Hugh sighs. The hand settles into a soothing pattern. He’s tired enough that the motion almost sends him to sleep.

So, of course, Paul shatters the moment with an ill-timed admission. “I’m sorry I made you think that I would have killed it.”

He sits up suddenly, dislodging Paul’s hand from where he’d placed it. “Sorry?”

Paul blinks, suddenly contrite. 

Hugh stares. “You were never going to use the tardigrade at all, were you? This entire time--you were planning to inject yourself with the compound and pilot it yourself.” 

“It’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission,” he says simply, making a half-aborted movement that Hugh interprets as a shrug. “I knew that you would never _dream_ of letting me do it.” 

“And for good reason.” Hugh scowls. He’s stuck somewhere between anger and affection--a combination that’s becoming all too common when dealing with Paul’s antics. 

Paul regards him sadly, tuned into something in Hugh’s expression that he himself is unable to classify. “How bad was it?”

Expression crumpling, Hugh bends forwards to bury his face in Paul’s neck. “Baby, it was so bad. None of the other doctors could figure out what to do--they commed me and I could hear you _screaming.”_ His breath comes out in harsh gasps; Hugh can feel Paul trembling below him. “Your heart was about to stop, I thought you were going to die right in front of me.”

Hands wind their way around his shoulders. They pull at his uniform until he’s most of the way onto the bed, crushed up against Paul’s side in an uncoordinated mess of limbs. 

“I’m sorry,” Paul says. Their bodies click into place like puzzle pieces, eyes and hands lining up and holding tight. “You know that I had to do it, though.”

Hugh sighs. “That’s what I’m afraid of. War changes people; it brings out realities that we don’t want to face within ourselves.” He snakes a hand up to cup Paul’s cheek. “I don’t want you to get sucked up in all of that, You’re an explorer, not a soldier.”

“Try telling that to Lorca,” Paul scoffs. 

They settle into a silence--two weary, disillusioned men stretched out in an empty room. 

“I’m sorry,” Hugh says after a moment.

Paul raises an eyebrow.

“I mean--I’m sorry for thinking that you would actually go through with Saru’s orders. I should have known that the man I’ve loved for years couldn’t have been the same one that would send an innocent creature to its death.”

A corner of Paul’s mouth curls into a smile. “I love you too.”

“This is the part where you say that all is forgiven,” he points out. “I was trying for an apology.”

Paul brings their lips together for a chaste kiss. “I love you, I forgive you--they’re more similar than you might think.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO. It's been a while. A lot of stuff has happened for Discovery since I last updated, which I am both happy and upset about--hopefully we'll see Wilson Cruz back for season 2 (fingers crossed). Regardless, I'll see this miniseries through to the end. A bit of a larger chapter this time, it sort of spiraled as I kept writing. 
> 
> [Come visit me on Tumblr!](http://memesichetta.tumblr.com/)  
> [Also check out my writing side-blog for regular updates](https://chettawrites.tumblr.com/)


	4. Magic to Make the Sanest Man Go Mad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we follow Stamets as he deals with the same 30 minutes repeating over and over again, a partner who's suddenly begun treating him very differently, a homicidal maniac, and a plot to destroy the Federation. Just another day at the office.

“Paul, really?”

He turns around, brow furrowed. “What did Tyler mean by that?”

Hugh sighs. “I shouldn’t have to explain to you that asking strange, invasive questions about your subordinates’ lives is _not okay.”_ Shaking his head, he shifts the box of supplies onto one arm and uses the other to begin guiding Paul back down the hallway. _“‘You’re very grounded for someone who was tortured’--Jesus Christ, Paul.”_

“I was trying to be nice,” he says, attempting to shift Hugh’s grip so that instead of just gripping his arm, the two are holding hands. 

Hugh stiffens slightly at the contact. He’s too tense, Paul decides--too many late shifts in sickbay and not enough time to rest. All of it has been putting a strain on his dear doctor; the smile Paul loves so much wearing a little thin over the last few days.

Hugh yanks his arm away. “You’ll need to apologize to Tyler when you’re feeling a little better.”

Paul’s brow furrows. “I feel fine. Should I go apologize now?” He starts back in the direction of the turbolift without waiting for an answer. 

A strong arm around his waist stops him in his tracks. “No, Paul--you can do it later.”

“But I’m feeling better _now,”_ he protests. 

“I know that you think you’re feeling fine, but trust me,” Hugh says, guiding Paul back around to face him. “You’ll thank me later.”

He steps away. “Why?”

Hugh sighs, expression closed off in a way Paul isn’t used to. His face brightens suddenly, eyes flashing and mouth curling into a smile. It looks about as organic as the augments in Paul’s arms. “We were on our way to the engineering lab, weren’t we?”

“We were? I can’t even remember.”

“Something about new drive enhancements?”

“Right--Yes! I want to experiment with some new synthetic alloys that I think would be _perfect_ for--” Paul freezes, blinking. Hugh’s smile is strained. “You just tried to change the subject on me, didn’t you?”

The animated mask falls away quick as it appeared. “Please, Paul. Just listen to me. We’ll go to the engineering lab so that you can do some experimenting and then when you’re feeling better we’ll--”

“You keep saying that. _‘When I’m feeling better’_. I feel fine, Hugh,” Paul snaps loudly. His eyes narrow. Something isn’t right about this whole situation; he just can’t put his finger on it yet. “Shouldn’t you be in sickbay by now? Beta shift started hours ago.”

His jaw tenses. “I’m not on duty today.”

“Why?” 

“The CMO thought I would benefit from a day off.” Hugh’s lying--he can’t meet Paul’s eyes. 

Paul wracks his brain. His last jump had been just a couple of days ago, so some of the events immediately after are a little disarranged. Despite this, he clearly remembers Hugh’s constant presence by his side--from the time he went into the chamber until they brushed their teeth before bed. 

Paul shakes his head. “No--you’ve been with me nonstop. You haven’t even been back to sickbay in days.” His voice is getting louder now; a few heads turn towards them. 

“Paul, relax.” Hugh holds out his hand as if to calm a startled animal. “You’re getting worked up over nothing--just listen.”

“Stop talking around me!” he shouts, bringing his hands to Hugh’s shoulders. “You’re lying to me.”

Hugh’s expression crumples. He clutches at Paul’s arm with his free hand, grip almost crushing in its intensity. “Paul, please.” 

“You just keep deflecting and lying-- _why?”_

Hugh opens his mouth--to confess or just to offer another excuse, Paul has no idea. But before he can say anything, the entire corridor is awash with red light. 

_Red Alert._

The hallway springs into action, ensigns and officers scrambling to battle stations.

The box of spare parts slips from Hugh’s grip; they scatter across the floor. “This way,” he shouts over the drone of the computer, pulling Paul back towards the turbolift. 

The ship beneath them seems to rumble; Paul swears he can hear the groan of the metal.

An ensign rushes past them, screaming into his communicator. Paul can just make out the words “hull breach” before he’s out of hearing range. 

“Hugh--”

Hugh turns to look at him, eyes wide and terrified. His hand shakes in Paul’s.

There’s a sudden, searing heat. And then no more.

000

They are standing in the storage bay, Hugh holding a box of spare parts as Paul rifles through it.

Paul blinks, grip tightening on a phase compensator. 

They’re not in the corridor. There is no hull breach, no flash of flame and scorching heat. 

Hugh doesn’t notice. “I swear, half of the new medical recruits act like they’ve never so much as glanced at a textbook in their lives. I had to talk one of the new cadets out of administering Lectrazine to treat chest pains. Imagine that--a powerful anti-convulsant to treat an ailment that _barely_ warranted Ibuprofen!”

He remembers having this conversation. Hugh had complained; Paul had responded with something biting about the quality of Starfleet’s newest personnel. It had been an innocuous enough interaction--just one of the many the two would share throughout the day.

“What’s wrong?” A hand reaches out to touch his arm. The contact feels real enough. “Paul?”

“I’m dreaming.” The edges of the compensator dig into Paul’s hand; he clutches it tighter, foolishly hoping the pain will somehow make everything make sense again. 

Hugh’s eyes are wide and worried when he tilts Paul’s face towards him. “What?”

Something warm runs down Paul’s arm. “This can’t be real--none of this is real,” he mutters. 

“What are you talking about? This is real. You’re here right now, with me.” He sets down the box of parts and moves to clutch at Paul’s hand, still closed around the compensator. “Paul, please let go.” 

Paul stares at him, eyes wide. “What?”

“Let go of the compensator. You’re bleeding.” There’s an edge of panic to Hugh’s voice now. 

Paul drops it, suddenly realizing what the wetness on his arm had been. There are deep gashes in his hand, the skin sliced away by the rough edges of the tool. His heartbeat thunders in his chest.

He shouldn’t be bleeding. He shouldn’t be _here. Now._

“This didn’t happen before--this is wrong,” he says insistently, holding his hand out for Hugh to see. 

Hugh takes Paul’s hand almost automatically, cradling it between both of his. He looks around them, brows furrowed. “Paul, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you get it--I’ve done this all before and this is wrong!” He yanks his hand away. Blood flecks the ground around them. 

“Paul, please.” Hugh holds his hands out, palms first. The familiarity of the action is jarring.

He nearly yells. _“Stop doing that!”_

Hugh looks lost. “Okay. I don’t… Paul--”

“This is all wrong--it shouldn’t have happened like this! The explosion sent me back somehow! I should be back where I was, not here. Not _now!”_

Hugh’s eyes are fixed on a point somewhere over Paul’s shoulder. He shakes his head. “I don’t know, I don’t know.”

“Listen to me!”

His eyes snap back to him. “I am listening, Paul.”

Paul shakes his head. “You’re not--you aren’t,” he yells. “Stop looking at me like that! Like I’m losing my mind!”

“You’re not making any sense,” he chokes out, inching closer. 

Paul retreats. “Stop. Don’t _move!”_

Hugh freezes, one arm still outstretched. “I’m sorry,” he says.

Suddenly, hands are grabbing at Paul’s shoulders. He lets out a scream as his arms are forced behind his back and held there. 

“Stop! Let me go!” he yells.

There’s a quick pain in his neck and the hiss of a hypospray. 

His arms go weak; the pain in his hand seems further away now, less important. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Hugh keeps saying it, over and over again as he lowers Paul to the ground. He’d come closer without Paul noticing, sometime in the last few seconds. There’s an empty hypo on the ground next to him. 

Paul strains against the sedative, mouth still trying to form words. 

Hugh’s hands cradle his face, gentle despite their shaking. “Shhhhh. I’m so sorry, Paul. I’m sorry.”

He keeps repeating it until Paul’s eyes slip closed.

000

By the eleventh reset, Paul knows not to make a scene. He doesn’t do anything to alert Hugh, doesn’t set out in search of Burnham or Tyler.

“--one of the new cadets out of administering Lectrazine to treat chest pains. Imagine that--a powerful anti-convulsant to treat an ailment that _barely_ warranted Ibuproen!”

Paul grins as he inspects a stem bolt. “Sorry your cadets are nowhere near as well-trained as mine are.”

He snorts. “Which well-trained cadets? Aside from Tilly, all the new members in the engineering lab are too scared of you to try anything.” 

“My point exactly,” Paul says, tossing a couple more things into the box of parts before taking it from Hugh. He never pays too much attention to what materials he picks up in storage--it’s not like they ever make it to the labs. 

He’s died nine times now--ten if he’s assuming that something killed him that one time he’d been sedated for the rest of the loop. It’s not always the same way either. Typically, an explosion will come around the 30-minute mark, but there have been a few outliers. One time he was dematerialized by a phaser, another he was sucked into space through a hull breach on the bridge. On one memorable occasion, the ship around him had just broken apart as if ripped into pieces at the whims of space.

Paul doesn’t know what he’s doing. No one else seems to feel the passing of time in the same way that he does. 

“All finished,” he tells Hugh. “Let’s head to the labs.” 

Who knows--maybe they’ll actually get there this time. 

Hugh smiles. “Sounds good.”

There’s a slight edge to Hugh’s voice, the way he looks at Paul, that makes him feel slightly off-balance. Had it been like this in every other loop?

He inquires about it as they amble their way out of the storage bay. “Are you feeling okay?”

Hugh blinks. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“It’s just--” Paul sighs. “I don’t know. It feels like you’re upset at me or something. Wait--have I done anything?”

Hugh’s brow smoothes out. “Of course not,” he says, smiling slightly. 

Paul stops him with a hand on his arm, turning to face his partner. “Then why do you keep looking at me like that?”

The smile slips off Hugh’s face. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Ignore me--I think I’m going crazy.”

“Paul,” Hugh chastises him, eyes flinty. “Don’t say things like that.”

“I wasn’t--” Paul starts, and then realizes what Hugh’s just said. 

It clicks suddenly. All of the side-long glances, the fabricated levity, and the careful attempts at changing the subject were Hugh reacting to his fears in the only way he knows how--by trying to control them. 

“You don’t think that I’m _me,_ do you?”

Hugh starts, then sobers. “Paul, that makes no sense. Of course I know that you’re you--who else would you be?” 

Paul shakes his head and sets off down the hallway, leaving Hugh to follow in his wake. 

“Paul--”

“You’re afraid that the spore drive is changing me, making me into someone that I’m not.” He doesn’t look at Hugh as he says it. Paul doesn’t want to be proven right. 

Hugh’s hand is tentative on the small of his back. “You can’t deny that accessing the mycelial network sometimes leaves you a little… erratic,” he says, leaning in close. 

Paul sighs. They come upon a turbolift, the area deserted except for them. Paul slows to a stop. 

The two turn to face each other. Paul doesn’t know why he brought any of this up; the distance between them has managed to turn sour and cold over the last few minutes. He doesn’t appreciate the feeling. 

Paul sighs again, bringing air up from deep in his chest. “I don’t know what to do to make you realize that I’m the same person I’ve always been.” 

Hugh’s composure shatters. He reaches out, but doesn’t span the space between them. “Paul-- _baby,_ I--”

The turbolift behind them opens--both of them freezing at the intrusion. There’s a man wearing a ridiculous-looking helmet, Paul notices, pointing something at the console in the back of the lift. 

It’s not until the man rounds on them that Paul realizes that the _something_ he had pointed at the exposed wires is a loaded phaser. Its emitter tip glows.

Hugh takes a single step towards Paul, then slumps to the floor. 

Paul’s world slams sideways.

“No!” 

He’s on his knees next to Hugh within the moment, pressing his hands to where red is beginning to soak through the white of his uniform. 

“Paul…” Hugh’s eyes are still open, his voice wavering. 

“So sorry about that,” the shooter says as he removes his helmet, not sounding particularly sorry at all. He’s an average-looking human by all accounts--not someone Paul would suppose capable of murder. “Forgot to switch down from the disruptor setting. My bad, my bad.” 

“Get help!” Paul yells. Blood is bubbling up through the gaps in between his fingers and pooling beneath his knees. 

The man seems to consider this for a moment. “Hm. No thanks, I’ll take a pass on that for the time being.” 

“Paul,” Hugh chokes out, a string of blood dribbling from his lips. Paul may not know nearly as much about bio-medical science as his partner, but it doesn’t take a genius to know _that_ is a bad sign. 

Paul’s eyes are wet. “He’ll die!” he protests as the man moves back into the turbolift. 

“We’re all going to die anyway. Buck up, he’ll be back soon.” He grins, the lift doors closing. 

A touch on his face brings Paul’s attention back to the man underneath his hands. Hugh has grown pale; for all his trying, Paul’s hands alone can’t hold him together. 

“I’ll get help--I’m going to get help, Hugh.” His bloody fingers fumble across his communicator. “Sickbay! Lieutenant Stamets to sickbay!” 

No response comes. 

“It’s too late,” Hugh says. His fingers cradle Paul’s jaw. “It’s--I love you, Paul.”

Nearly all the colour has drained from Hugh’s face; the pool of blood on the floor has only grown. “Don’t say it like that,” Paul begs. 

Hugh smiles, but it looks wrong with the blood on his teeth. “Never could please you, could I?” It comes out wet--as if Hugh were trying to speak through a mouthful of water. “I’m sorry.”

He moves to cup Hugh’s face in between his palms. “No, no--shhh. Don’t apologize, you don’t have anything to apologize for.”

“I was scared that I was losing you. But I’m--I see you now. You’re here.” 

Paul shakes his head. His hands leave bloody streaks on Hugh’s cheeks “And I’m not going anywhere.” 

“Good.” His smile is sadder now. A cough rips through him, more blood bubbles from his mouth. “I love you.”

“I love you, Hugh. I can’t tell you--” He bends forward and presses their lips together, desperation making him weak.

He tastes iron, his lips coming away red with blood. 

Hugh says his name again. “Stay with me,” he pleads. 

“I would never leave.” Paul’s crying openly now, tears mingling with the blood on his face. He presses their foreheads together and twines their hands. “I’ve got you.”

Hugh coughs again, spraying blood down the front of his uniform. His breaths come with more difficulty now. 

“I’ve got you,” Paul says. 

Hugh doesn’t speak again. 

“No. No--no, please!” He looks down into empty eyes; Hugh’s hand slips from his. “Hugh. _No.”_

But Hugh doesn’t wake, doesn’t rouse and start barking orders like that time at home when he’d sliced his head open and then made Paul do the stitches. 

The man’s words come back: “He’ll be back soon.”

Everything needs to reset again--Hugh needs to come back. 

“Take me back--please,” he shouts to an empty hallway. 

Pulling Hugh’s head into his lap, Paul settles in to wait it out. Something always comes along to kill them--he just has to wait. 

“It’ll be fine, Hugh,” he says, trying to convince himself. 

The hallway is suddenly bathed in a sickly red light; Paul nearly sobs with relief. 

Blood soaks through the knees of his pants. Fire rushes up to meet him from the end of the corridor he and Hugh walked down only minutes previous. 

He closes his eyes. Paul Stamets dies with a smile on his face.

000

By the time he opens his eyes, they’re standing in the storage bay--Hugh holding a box of spare parts as Paul rifles through it.

His knees nearly give out. “Hugh,” Paul breathes out, the phase compensator slipping from his fingers. 

Hugh is obviously thrown by the clear change in his behaviour. Settling the box of spare parts aside, he peers curiously into Paul’s eyes.

“Are you feeling alright? Paul--?”

He is silenced by Paul stepping into the circle of his arms, his trembling hands coming up to cup Hugh’s face. 

“You’re here. You’re fine,” Paul mutters to himself, eyes roving over his partner’s face. It takes every bit of restraint Paul has to keep him from just wrapping his arms around Hugh and not letting go again. “Everything is back the way it should be. I won’t let anything happen to you again--nothing is going to happen.”

Hugh’s hands find Paul’s arms, grip tight and insistent. “You’re rambling again,” he says--and now that Paul’s looking for it he can see the quiet way his face seems to fall, how the levity in his eyes dims just slightly.

Paul shakes his head. “I’m fine, just fine. We’re both fine.”

There’s nothing he wants more than to just feel that Hugh is really here with him—something tangible enough to make him forget everything he’s just had to experience. Paul can’t get the image of those dead eyes out of his head. He can almost see the blood pooling around them, feel it on his hands, underneath his knees, streaked across his face. 

So much blood-- _too much blood._

“Paul.” Hugh’s sharp shake jostles him from his thoughts. 

He can’t contain himself any longer. Without thinking, he wraps both his arms around his partner, drawing him as close as physically possible. His hand scramble over plain of Hugh’s back--waist to neck, left to right shoulder. 

Hugh’s here, so why is Paul still so terrified?

“Paul, what’s wrong?” Hugh asks again, concern snaking into his voice.

Instead of answering, Paul buries his head in the space where Hugh’s neck meets his shoulder. There’s no way to explain any of this--not without sounding like he’s lost his mind, at least. 

How do you tell the person you love that you just watched them die? Even leaving out everything pertaining to the fact that he’s living out the same 30-odd minutes over and over again, Hugh will chalk everything up to another erratic episode.

He pries Paul away from his chest, apparently inspecting him for any physical sign of disturbance. “You’re scaring me. I don’t know what’s wrong--I don’t know how to help you if you won’t tell me what’s going on.”

“Nothing is wrong,” he maintains, weaker this time.

“Then why are you shaking?”

Paul sighs. He’s tired--too tired to pretend that everything is fine, too tired to put on a brave face for Hugh, and too tired to worry about fixing whatever the fuck is wrong with the time-stream at this point. 

“Can we go back to our quarters? It’s--I’m not feeling too well.” The lie rolls off his tongue. Paul doesn’t want to go through this mess again, not yet at least. 

Hugh’s eyes are wide. He cards a hand through Paul’s hair, pausing for a moment to check his temperature. “If you’re unwell then we should stop off in sickbay. Your last jump was only--”

“Please, Hugh. No sickbay, no tests, no medicine.”

Hugh’s mouth twists with indecision. Finally, he sighs. “Sure. Okay. We’ll go back to our quarters.” He waves a threatening finger in Paul’s face. “But if you feel sick in the slightest, you tell me--deal?”

Paul twines their fingers together. “Deal. Let’s go.”

No one pays them any mind as they leave the storage bay, too busy with their own tasks to notice the doctor lead his wayward scientist back to their rooms. 

The walk back is quiet--Hugh is too busy studying Paul to be a good conversationalist and Paul just isn’t in the mood to talk. To him, it’s only been 10 minutes since he saw his partner literally gunned down in front of him by a madman in a mask. 

And he still doesn’t even know the lunatic’s name. 

They round a corner and Paul comes to a sudden stop when he realizes where they are. 

Hugh turns around, only noticing that Paul has fallen out of step once he is a few feet behind. “What is it?”

Paul’s eyes are fixed on the insignia underneath his feet. He vividly remembers looking at this same insignia through a liberal layer of Hugh’s blood--his body sprawled lifelessly over the asymmetrical points. 

A tentative hang tugs at his, startling Paul from his memories. 

“Are you sure that you’re alright?” Hugh asks, his eyes wide with worry. 

“I’m fine, Hugh.” Paul belatedly notices that his hands have begun trembling again. He tears his eyes away from the floor, instead focussing his attention on his partner. 

Hugh doesn’t look convinced--Paul’s not surprised, he’s a rotten liar. “Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

“Then consider yourself forgiven.” He tries for a blithe inflection, but it’s clear that Hugh won’t be taken in by petty fabrications this time. 

By the time Hugh manages to drag Paul the rest of the way to their quarters, more than half of the time-loop has already elapsed. 

Paul glares at the analog on their bedside table. “Not enough time--I wanted more time,” he curses under his breath. 

“What was that?” Hugh’s changing out of his uniform, having already shucked his top half upon entering the room.

Kicking off his boots, Paul doesn’t hesitate before climbing into bed still fully dressed. “Come here.” 

Hugh raises his eyebrow. “You know, I was actually planning to try and get some work done while you rested. God knows I can never get anything done around here otherwise.”

“Hugh, _please.”_

His eyes soften, something about the plantive quality of Paul’s voice obviously rendering him incapable of resistance. 

“Are you happy now?” Hugh asks once the two of them are lying stretched out together, curled towards each other like a pair of parentheses.

“Better,” Paul says, because this--this is better. He may not be able to feel happy, not when there’s a homicidal maniac making them relive the same period over and over again, but for now, this is as close as Paul is going to get.

Hugh’s arms snake around Paul’s chest, drawing him in until he’s lying with his head pressed into Hugh’s clavicle. He can feel each beat of Hugh’s heart; his body rises and falls in time with his partner’s breathing. 

“Computer, play Kasseelian Opera. I don’t care which one, but just nothing that sounds like Musetta’s Waltz.” 

A low, lilting sound emits from the room’s speaker system--one which thankfully bears no resemblance to the classic from _La Bohème._

Laughter rumbles through Hugh’s chest. “You hate opera--Kasseelian in particular, if I recall correctly.” 

“I don’t dislike opera, actually,” Paul says, tracing over the line of Hugh’s ribs with a careful finger. “It’s just when you’re the one humming it that I suddenly have an issue.”

“Do you remember the day we met?”

Paul snorts. “Hard to forget one of the best days of my life.”

Hugh is quiet for a moment. “You don’t really mean that.” 

“Of course I do.” He lifts his head, tilting Hugh’s chin so that their eyes lock. “You’re one of the best things to happen to me. I think about you and me in that little cafe on Alpha Centauri and I think about the beginning of the rest of my life--everything before that was just prologue.”

Hugh’s eyes shine in the dim of the room. “I love you,” he says; and even though they’ve said it a thousand times before, Hugh still manages to make it sound like some sort of revelation. 

Paul smiles. Even if everything resets in another few minutes, Hugh forgetting everything that has just transpired between them, this will be a moment Paul hangs onto for the rest of his life. He peeks over Hugh’s shoulder at the analog clock. They’re running out of time here. 

He rests his head back against Hugh’s chest. The room is quiet and dark, the only light coming from the distant stars scattered across their viewports. 

The two men breathe in sync; they don’t need words or actions past this gentle moment to convey what each of them already knows. 

_Red Alert._

Even though Paul is expecting the alarm, it’s still startling. “Just stay here,” he pleads, when Hugh makes an aborted move to get up.

“We need to--”

“No,” he begs, voice tight with fear and grief. “Just stay for a moment.” 

If Hugh thinks he’s lost his mind, he doesn’t show it outright. His span Paul’s back, smoothing over the fabric of his uniform. “Okay.”

Hugh’s heartbeat is steady underneath Paul’s ear. He closes his eyes.

When the explosion rocks their ship, Paul doesn’t even see it coming.

000

The loop after that, Paul presses a phaser to the back of the shooter’s head. He keeps the setting on the same one that killed Hugh.

More power than needed for a simple stun, but less than a full dematerialization.

A single pull of the trigger, and it’s over. He hears a computer counting down somewhere in the depths of the engineering lab--no matter, they’ll all be back for the next one. 

But this next time will be different; Paul knows what he’s up against--he understands what’s at stake now. 

He’s not letting this maniac win. Even if it takes him 100 loops, 5000 loops, he’s not giving up now. 

As he surveys his work, Paul notes with no small amount of satisfaction that a disruptor blast from close range _does_ go right through a human cranium.

000

“I think these may be side effects of your--”

Paul holds out a halting finger. “Wait.”

Burnham pauses, mouth frozen mid-argument. “What are you doing?”

“I’m better at remembering things when I can write them down first,” he says, fingers flying over his datapadd. “You’ve been surprisingly consistent over all the loops so I have decided it would probably be easiest to convince you over anyone else. Sorry, what was that you just said? These may be side effects of…”

Burnham blinks, cocking her head in a way Paul has become all too familiar with over the last 30 or so loops. 

Paul frowns. “No, I do not need to see Doctor Culber.”

“How did you know I was going to say that?’ she asks. Paul can practically see the gears turning in her head. 

He sighs. “I’ve done all this before. Many times, actually.” 

Burnham squints, regarding him the same way she would a complex bit of code she’s trying to parse out. “I still think we should find Doctor Culber.”

“You always do. Now, if you’d be so gracious as to continue your earlier train of thought…”

She sighs, obviously put-upon. “I think these may be side effects of your exposure to the alien DNA; it’s possible we haven’t--”

000

This time feels different--this is the last one. Paul feels it from his brain down to his nerve endings, a sense of complete finality.

What Mudd is doing is unnatural in the most basic way. Time isn’t diverging like it’s supposed to be; using the time crystal is akin to going back over the same bit of writing over and over again, but each time with different words. The timestream has been held here for too long. It doesn’t want to be controlled like this, leashed and domesticated like an animal on some backwater planet. 

Even now, it’s crying to be set free. It knows the end is in sight--can probably feel it in the same way Paul does. 

Either they win or Mudd does. No more do-overs after this. 

Paul doesn’t pause to chat with Hugh in the storage bay, they haven’t enough time for confessions or goodbyes when the whole of time is concerned. He just drops the compensator and starts off in the opposite direction. 

However, it doesn’t take long for Hugh to find him. The doctor is stubborn in that way, even more so when it comes to his partner. 

Hugh’s hand snakes out to grab Paul’s arm. “Paul, what are you doing?”

They don’t have time for this. Burnham will be at the party soon--Paul needs to corner her before she goes in so that she can convince Tyler to rewire the Captain’s chair. 

“Relax, Hugh. Everything is fine; there’s just a couple of things I need to do right now.” 

But Hugh’s grip is unrelenting, ushering him away from the rec center and back down the corridor. “Your last jump was only a couple of days ago--you might still be experiencing symptoms.” 

Paul runs a tired hand over his face. “I don’t have time for this.” With a sharp tug, he yanks his arm from Hugh’s grip. “I need you to see _me.”_

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Hugh says, shaking his head. 

“No--you look at me differently now. It took me a while to see, but once I did it was hard to pretend that I didn’t notice everything else. All the diversions and trips to the engineering lab; I was so happy to have you around that I didn’t realize that they’d made you my glorified babysitter.”

Hugh sighs. “Paul I’m sorry, but even you have to admit that the way you’ve been acting lately has been a little erratic. I apologize if my behaviour makes you feel like I’m fussing at you, but I’m just…” He trails off. 

Paul had understood the effects of constant spore drive use on his body, had expected that dabbling in eugenics would come at a price; what he hadn’t thought about was the toll all the jumps would take on Hugh.

“Say it,” Paul demands, chest tight with realization. 

“I’m scared.” Hugh sighs, and it looks as if a heavy weight has been taken off his chest. “You’ve been acting so unlike yourself, and all I can think is _what if he’s like this forever?_ What do I do if you come out of the reaction chamber one day and I don’t know who you are anymore?” 

Paul sets his jaw, stubborn in his insistence. “I can’t promise that everything’s going to be fine. With tech this experimental, I have no idea what the potential ramifications might be. I’m going to lose myself sometimes in the network, but what I don’t need you to pretend like everything’s fine or hold me at a distance. I need you to help me find my way back.” 

Hugh blinks. “Paul, I’m sorry. I never meant to--”

“I know.” He squeezes Hugh’s shoulder. “And we’re gonna have time for all of that later. But right now, I just need my partner to look at me and realize that _I am still here.”_

Hugh’s hand reaches up to touch his face. “I do see you. I--I get it now.” 

He lays his hand overtop Hugh’s. “You need to trust me on this.”

“I do.” 

Paul searches his expression for any trace of doubt, or evidence of a lie. Finding none, he squeezes Hugh’s hand. “Okay. I’ll see you soon, dear doctor.” 

“Be safe,” Hugh says, and it’s so typical of him that Paul nearly laughs. 

Paul catches a glimpse of Burnham as she strides into the rec room. “No promises,” he calls as he follows her in. 

They have a ship to save.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my chapters keep getting longer and longer and I have no idea what to do about that. This episode was my absolute favourite out of this season and I felt that there was a lot of stuff to unpack that the writers didn't really give us time for. I hope everyone loves reading this as much as I loved writing it!
> 
>  
> 
> [Come visit me on Tumblr!](http://memesichetta.tumblr.com/)  
> [Also check out my writing side-blog for regular updates](https://chettawrites.tumblr.com/)


	5. Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The memory lapses and migraines aren't Paul's only problem.

Paul is jostled from sleep by the sound of the door sliding open. Starfleet medical-issue boots squeak past their bed and into the bathroom, the familiar gait and sound stirring in him a feeling of contentment. Paul would usually offer Hugh some sort of clever greeting, or at the very least make his presence known somehow, but he’s thrown an arm over his face that he feels no inclination to move. In fact, he feels no inclination to do _anything_ at the moment, fatigue exerting a dull ache on what feels like his entire body.

“Computer, lights to seventy percent.”

Groaning, Paul curls himself into a ball as the room is bathed in what he believes is an unnecessary amount of light. “Computer, belay that order, please,” he bites out, tension draining out of him only after they’re thrown back into darkness. 

“Paul?” Shoes move from the bathroom and back into their main quarters. “Christ you scared me--I thought you’d still be in the labs.”

His last jump had been his furthest, most precise one yet: a trip across two quadrants to aid in a botched POW-retrieval mission. The trip into Klingon territory had been difficult at best; the trip back was like trying to solve a Rubik's cube on a rollercoaster. 

“I haven’t been to the labs yet,” he says.

The mattress dips and Paul feels Hugh perch on the bed next to him. There’s a pair of twin thumps as Hugh’s boots hit the floor, probably left for him to trip over later. “What do you mean you haven’t been to the labs?”

“I’ve been resting, not feeling well. I’ll go later.”

There’s silence for a long moment. Paul wonders what he’s said this time. 

Hugh manages to switch into ‘doctor-mode’ within the space of a second. “What do you mean you’re not feeling well? Is it a headache? Nausea? Congestion?” A hand finds his forehead before reaching to grab one of his wrists. 

Paul rolls over, his partner’s concern forcing him to abandon his plans to sleep for a little longer. 

The room is dark when he opens his eyes, the stars outside their viewport providing just enough light for him to make out Hugh’s outline. “Relax, Hugh. You don’t need to take my pulse, I’m just a little tired.”

“Paul--”

“Why are you back so soon?” he interrupts, as Hugh continues to fuss at him. “Isn’t your shift starting--?”

“Listen to me,” Hugh says, voice insistent. “Paul, I just _finished_ my shift. It’s 2300 hours--you’ve been asleep since 0900.”

Paul gapes; he’d only meant to rest his eyes for a few more moments. “That can't be right.” 

Hugh holds up his padd, displaying in neat analog a time several hours past what Paul had thought it was. 

"Oh," he says shortly. He clears his throat, fighting down latent anxiety--all that time wasted today and he hadn't even realized. "So I took a really long nap, whatever. I still think you're blowing this all out of proportion."

Hugh's not impressed with his self-diagnosis. “You slept for almost 20 hours today, so I’m sorry if you think I’m worrying more than is warranted, but this is serious.” He draws back to his side of the bed, still keeping a hand on Paul's wrist. “Alright, describe your symptoms for me.”

“It’s nothing, Hugh--really. I’m just tired from the last couple of jumps,” Paul lies. His head is pounding so hard he can almost _feel_ his sinuses, and even the smallest movements require a painful amount of effort. 

Hugh stretches out next to him, one foot breaching the space between them to lightly tap Paul’s shin. “In my professional opinion, this doesn’t sound like nothing. Most people don’t just sleep for an entire day without noticing it.” 

Paul musters a weak kick in retaliation, ignoring the dizziness the action prompts. “Most people also aren’t piloting a highly-experimental and exhausting piece of technology on an almost daily basis, though. Nothing’s wrong, Hugh. I’m alright.”

“Still, you shouldn’t be sleeping for that long--nevermind doing it without even realizing.”

“It’s not like this happens all the time; the jumps just took a lot out of me, that’s all.” While it’s not _technically_ a lie, Paul isn’t willing to admit to the fact that last week he’d slept through three alarms and half of his shift before waking up feeling like he hadn’t gone to bed at all.

Paul purses his lips. If he tells Hugh then he’ll start worrying, and after he’s had his fill of fussing he’ll investigate. Then it’s only a matter of time until the truth wins out, for better or for worse.

"And, actually, I feel great." Another lie, he's exhausted beyond belief despite the fact that all he's done today is sleep. 

At least the headache isn't so bad for a change. And he knows who and where he is, so that's a helpful bonus.

“I’m just worried about you, that’s all,” Hugh says, moving back into Paul’s space and swiftly transitioning out of his ‘doctor-mode’. 

Paul exhales a small sigh of relief at having so quickly steered Hugh back into comfortable territory. He’s never liked lying to his partner, but Paul understands Starfleet protocol well enough to know that at this point, lying is his only option. 

He knows that Hugh would keep it a secret if he asked. But he also knows how hard it is for a doctor who’s been let go on a dishonorable discharge to find decent work again. 

Paul can’t do that to Hugh. It would crush him if Starfleet found out and they took away his medical license.

He rolls over and Hugh settles in behind him, arms locking across his front like a seatbelt holding him in place.

“I don’t want you to worry,” Paul says after a while. 

Hugh doesn’t say anything, just presses his lips to the side of Paul’s neck. _I’ll always worry about you,_ Paul knows he’s saying.

He used to be so terrible at lying to Hugh. But now, something in Paul’s chest cracks as he realizes that somewhere along the line, it had stopped being so hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow! I did not mean to be gone for so long, guys. I've had like 3 drafts for this chapter and none of them were turning out how I was hoping they would and then the next thing I knew it was summer. Yeah, writer's block is a killer. A shorter chapter for you guys today, I had plans for a longer one but I felt like this one had a satisfying conclusion that I didn't want to cheapen. 
> 
> I'm listing the story as complete for now but fear not, I will be back with at least 1 more chapter!
> 
> Comments/kudos are, as always, appreciated immensely.


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